


dark deeds in dark towers

by brookethenerd



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Little Mermaid Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:33:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23363254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd
Summary: an AU loosely based on the little mermaid
Relationships: Steve Harrington/Reader, Steve Harrington/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	dark deeds in dark towers

Storms look different underwater. As lightning crackles and thunder booms and rain pours, the sea ravages anything unfortunate enough to be caught on its surface. The ocean floor is a graveyard, full of sunken ships and the bodies of those who couldn’t fight hard enough, with more and more nameless tombs joining the thousand littering the sandy floor each stormy night. 

From beneath, however, a storm is beautiful. Bright flashes of light cut through the water as lightning cracks and each bolt of thunder echoes like someone calling out a name, like a great confession or exclamation. The surface water grows cold, but a different cold than that of the deep, than that of the kingdoms. 

The cold of the ocean floor is dark, thick, and comforting after so many years in it. The cold of the surface is sharp and bright and stunning. 

There is more than just cold at the surface, though. There is danger; there are men. Men who pillage and burn and rape and devour. Men who try to take the sea for themselves, men who have already taken all of the land. 

The stories of the two-legged creatures above the surface are the subject of nightmares, are cautionary tales and attempted warnings. To be discovered is to be killed, is to rip down the society your people have spent a millennia building. 

Human beings are dangerous creatures. That is the claim your people have staked their lives on; it is the very fear that keeps you, and the others, beneath the surface. 

But fear is only so strong. Curiosity and hope are far stronger. 

-

The boy is drowning. 

You see him fall sideways off the burning ship, see him hit the water and drop beneath it. You know he’s a boy, not a man, due to his size, due to the lack of hair on his face, due to the boyishness lingering in his features. 

Human beings are supposed to be violent, terrifying, brilliant creatures. And yet, this one is sinking through the water like a stone, like he has no concern, like he’s forgotten he can’t breathe under here. 

You should stay away; you have to stay away. To mingle is to commit a crime worse than treason; to mingle is blasphemy. 

But the boy keeps sinking, and you know enough about their physical structures to know he’ll die if he doesn’t wake up, if he doesn’t start swimming up, if he doesn’t do something. 

You can’t let him die. 

You dart across the water, tail whipping and pushing you forward. You stop, lunging to catch the boy as he sinks toward you, dipping beneath his weight but quickly snapping your tail and pushing up. Up, to the surface. Up, to the very place you’re forbidden going. 

Up, to the place that will save this boy’s life. 

You break through the surface, lungs quickly adjusting to air, gills tucking themselves away, and scan the horizon. The beach isn’t far from where he fell off his boat, and you wrap an arm around him, holding tight as you cut through the water, the temperature warming as you reach shallow waters. It’s a little awkward, swimming half above water, no more helpful dragging the boy’s dead weight, but you manage to reach the shore, shoving the boy onto the sand and out of the tides reach. 

It’s an odd sensation, the air brushing every inch of your skin, the crunchy sand coating half your tail. Not a bad one, but a new one, a weird one. The wind catches the tips of your hair and lifts them off your skin, the air following a path only it can see, blowing your hair around for a moment before settling. Half of you wonders whether the wind is alive, too, like the ocean, like the sandy bottom. 

You push yourself up the sand to the boy, dragging your tail behind you; in the water, it makes you fast as a sailfish, sometimes faster. But here, in the sand, on the surface, it’s like dead weight, in the way and irritating. 

The boy lays flat on his back with his head lolled to the side, sand sticking to his arms and cheek. His dark hair falls in waves, not too long, but certainly long enough to twirl around your finger once or twice. 

You reach out to touch it, jumping back at the odd, wet, clump of it. You’re used to hair having a life of its own, moving around you and following you everywhere. But his hair - all human’s hair, perhaps - doesn’t move like that, doesn’t do anything unless someone moves it. 

Even down to the little things, your worlds are vastly different. 

“You’re alright,” you say. “You’re alright now.”

The boy’s lips part suddenly and he jerks, curling in on himself and pushing to the side to cough into the sand, water dribbling past his lips. The sound is thick and wet and painful, and the boy’s expression is contorted when he drops onto his back again, taking heavy breaths. 

You slip back into the water, grabbing onto one of the rocks jutting up past the surface and ducking behind it, popped up just enough to watch. 

The boy pushes to a sitting position and opens his eyes to reveal beautiful brown irises you can see all the way at your rock. He looked far younger in his sleep, but now that he’s sitting and looking around, his age is evident in the lines on his face and the distrust flashing in his brown eyes. He can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen winters old.

Under the sea, the passage of time is tracked differently than above. Contact with the surface is forbidden, so all the information you’ve gleaned about the two-loggers is from shipwrecks and the trinkets they leave behind, indications of a different world. The humans track by season, of which they have four. It has to do with temperature, you think, or perhaps the big light hanging in the sky. 

As for under, the seasons are tracked through currents. When the water is the coldest, the current is the strongest: Winter. The end of each season is marked by Winter, and when it ends, when the currents slow and the water warms, a new season begins. 

The boy is handsome, even for your people’s standards. The whole ‘legs’ thing is a tad unsettling, and you can’t help but wonder what his fin would look like, if he had one. Dark and shimmering, light and gleaming? Bright or dim? Warm colors or cool? 

It would be beautiful, because he’s beautiful. 

Confusion etches itself into the boy’s features, and an alarm bell pangs in your head, urging you back beneath the surface and the safety it provides, horror stories of gutted and stripped merpeople rolling through your head. And yet, despite the worry, despite the expected horror of humankind, you can’t find a trace of it in this boy. The rage and rampage and hate and violence, none of it seems to fit the young boy coughing into the sand. 

So, you hesitate, stay hidden, and watch. 

A barking noise sounds from down the beach - like that of a seal, but sharper above water - and a beast comes barreling down the sand and rams into the boy’s chest. It has the coloring of a seal, gray and slick coated, but the creature seems to have short hair where a seal has only smooth skin. 

Dog. The name pops into your head, dug out of piles and piles of information with no home. It’s a dog. Its head is massive, chest thick, and though it could at first be seen as intimidating, the wiggling of its rear end and the thin, rope-like protrusion of its tail indicate joyousness, as do the kisses the creature - dog - lathers the boy’s face with. 

“Jesus, Fisher,” the boy says, lips curling up in a smile, a laugh falling past his lips as the dog pushes him down into the sand for better licking access. He shoves the dog off playfully, and when it returns, wraps his arms around it and scratches its sides, the dog craning its head and wagging the rope attached to its back end. An interesting concept, to have a part of your body dedicated only to the portrayal of happiness. “I’m fine, man. I’m okay.” 

He pushes unsteadily to his feet, raking a hand through his damp hair and sending water droplets flying. The dog, Fisher, bounces around his feet, happy and excited. He reaches down to scratch its head before lifting his gaze to the sea and scanning it. You duck beneath the rock, gripping the stone edges, simultaneously praying that you were seen and that you weren’t. 

No voices or footsteps follow his attention, so after a long moment, you slowly push up over the rock again, eyes seeking out the boy in the sand. He’s turned back to the beach, scanning the sand as if to find clues he couldn’t in the water. 

Fisher’s nose twitches and his head snaps your way. Dread curdles in your gut as the dog saunters across the sand and into the shallow water, but he doesn’t come any further, despite meeting your eyes. Luckily, the creature can’t speak to tell on you. 

You slip beneath the surface and force yourself away, but your mind stays on the beach and the boy you dragged from the water and his beautiful eyes and his kind smile. 

You can’t get him - can’t get his world - out of your head. So, you make a deal. 

One month on land, trading a fin for a pair of legs. One month to find the boy from the beach and convince him to let you remain in his world. 

If he doesn’t, if he turns on you or sends you away, the witch beneath the sea gets your soul. 

One month to save your forever. One month to lose it, if you fuck up. Which means: you can’t fuck up. 

-

You wake in the sand, flat on your back, limbs encased in fabric. You jerk to a sitting position, lifting your arms to inspect the odd fabric covering them and your torso, and the separate pair of fabric wrapped around your-

Legs. Around your legs. Not a fin, but legs, the coloring matching that of your upper body. You hike up the fabric - pants, you believe - and inspect the weird, long legs stretching out in front of you. Knees wrinkled and shins surprisingly flat, the skin smooth and dry. 

The witch’s warning returns to you in a flash, her words ringing in your head. 

One month. Use it wisely. 

One month to find the boy you pulled from the water, your unofficial tether to the surface world, and somehow convince him to let you stay. 

You’ve never set foot - or, you suppose, fin - further than the shallow water of the beach, and have no idea how to find the boy in a chaotic world you’ve never seen, let alone do it without your voice. 

That was the trade, the bargain struck. One month of silence to search. 

You start to wonder whether you really thought this through, whether your desperation for an adventure and a change has only served to plunge you into the darkness; whether you’ve made a grave mistake. 

In the end, though, you don’t end up having to go searching for the boy at all. He finds you. Or, more technically, his dog does. 

Fisher the dog comes barreling down the beach, pink tongue flapping, and he splashes into the waves, playing for a moment before his big head snaps in your direction. The rope at his rear end - a tail? - wags so hard you fear it might break off, and he bounds toward you, water splashing in all directions. He rushes into you, knocking you back into the sand, attacking you with his pink tongue. 

“Fisher!” A voice calls. You crane your head to look past the slavering dog to see the boy jogging in your direction, shaking his head in disdain at the dog. “Fisher, _jesus_ -come on, man! Get off her!”

Fisher, unconcerned with his master, continues his licking spree, only stopping when the boy reaches you and tugs him off. Fisher bounces happily around the boy’s legs, tail thwacking. The boy lifts his gaze to yours, an apologetic smile on his lips. 

“Sorry about him,” he says, and drops his eyes to Fisher, “he’s a bit of an attention whore. Can’t keep his hands to himself.” 

You open your mouth to say, not a problem, but nothing comes out. _Oh_. 

You settle for shaking your head and giving him a small smile you hope indicates your forgiveness. Dropping to your knees and holding your hands out for Fisher, the dog barrels into your chest, almost knocking you off balance. A laugh slips past your lips, and you’re grateful to be able to make some sound. 

“Are you alright?” The boy asks, brows knitting together. “I’ve never seen you on this beach. Or…anywhere, actually. Are you from around here?”

You push to your feet, shaking your head. 

“Not from around here?”

You shake your head again, and the boy nods. Turning to face the opposite direction, the beach stretching miles and miles down, you point a finger, hoping to indicate far, and leave it at that. You couldn’t explain it if you wanted, and he isn’t likely to believe you, either. 

“Did someone come here with you?” His concern deepens. “Are you…do you need help?”

Frustration boils in your gut. How much simpler this would be with words. But words are the one thing you don’t have. 

Luckily, there are other ways to speak. Your eyes go wide and you turn, pointing to the wet sand and making your way over to it, the boy following. You kneel down and reach out, tracing the word alone with a finger and meeting the boy’s gaze. His frown deepens and he nods. 

“You can come back with me. We’ll find you a place to rest, and we can figure out the next step. Okay?”

You nod, reaching out again to trace your name into the sand and standing up, the boy’s lips curling up in a smile. 

“Y/N,” he says. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Steve,” he says. “Steve Harrington.” 

-

Of all the humans you had to pull from the sea, of course it was a prince. 

Steve Harrington leads you up the beach and through a grassy field to a large castle, tall and made out of brick, it’s guards perched along the top wall and at the gate. Two guards nod curtly at Steve as he leads you through the open gate and into a large hall with arching ceilings and wide windows spilling sunlight in. 

You should have known immediately he was someone of stature, with the way he holds himself and the quick shift in his demeanor the moment he left the beach, shifting from light and relaxed to stiff and observant. 

The castle isn’t all that different from your father’s beneath the sea, similarly large and guarded, but whereas your home is all abstract beauty and random decorations gifted by visitors, Steve’s castle appears untouched, the only decorations on the walls paintings of what must be the royal family. Steve’s parents, and him, though younger on the canvas. 

You try to memorize the turns Steve makes as you move through the castle hallways, but get lost after the first three, and settle for observing, trying to garner an understanding of the customs, the way they walk, the way they carry themselves. Just from a few minutes with Steve and a few hallways with guards, you can see the rigidity they all share. 

He takes you to what appears to be a guest bedroom, not entirely large but still elegant in its furnishings. A large canopy bed sits in the middle of the room, joined by an armoire against the wall and a vanity stacked with unused products. A set of doors across the room opens to a balcony, and when you step into the room, the smell of the sea hits you, carried in through the open doors. The salty tang of it makes you long for home, despite having made the choice to leave it all behind. 

You hope desperately you haven’t made a big mistake. If you have, then your last weeks will be spent in a lavish castle, alone but surrounded by people. It’s no way to end a life, no way to go out. 

_Please, please, don’t let me be wrong about this._

“It’s not much, but…” Steve says, almost sheepish. You turn to face him, eyes widening, shaking your head. You open your mouth to speak, to say, it’s amazing, but again, nothing passes your lips. That familiar frustration tightens in your gut, and Steve’s lips pull into a thin line. 

“I have an idea,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” 

You have no power to say okay, and simply stand waiting as he ducks out of the room and returns a few minutes later with something small and rectangular in his hands. His lips quirk up in a grin and he approaches you, holding up the blackboard and small stick of white. 

“Chalkboard and chalk,” he says. He holds it out to you, and you take it. “Do you know how to write?”

You nod, and press the chalk to the board, scrawling a quick sentence and turning it to face Steve, who snorts a laugh very un-elegantly, the sound making your stomach flip. Such a small noise, but so beautiful. 

_You did not tell me you were a prince._

“You didn’t ask if I was a prince.” 

You cock a brow, and he shrugs, putting on a lazy grin. He jerks a chin toward the balcony, and you follow him onto the stone balcony, it’s ledge stretching up to your hips. Steve hops up without hesitation, swinging a leg so he’s straddling the ledge. He holds out a hand, that easy smile lingering on his lips, and though you consider it, you’re far too new to your legs to trust them to hold you. You shake your head and move to lean against it instead, setting the chalkboard down and wiping the words off with the palm of your hand. 

The ocean is visible from the balcony, the castle set on a cliff overlooking the water, the sloping rock leading to the beach below. Not close enough that you could jump, but close enough to feel the wind, to smell the salt. You close your eyes and tip your head back, letting out a sigh as the wind courses over your skin, lifting your hair. You doubt you’ll ever get used to it, the constant and ever changing air. Like the current, but different. 

You get the sense you’re being watched and drop your chin, opening your eyes and turning your head to face Steve, who’s looking at you with a small, amused smile on his lips. 

“Where did you come from?” He asks, shaking his head softly. You grin, and pick up the chalk. 

_A land far far away._

“So, you’re the mysterious type, then?”

_A girl must be allowed a secret or two._

“Fair enough.” A cocky grin tugs on his lips, and he says, “But I’ll get them out of you sooner or later. Just you wait.” You return the smile and roll your eyes, wiping off the chalkboard and pushing it aside, leaning your forearms against the ledge and ducking your chin to rest against your arms. 

After a moment, you let your gaze trail up to Steve, who’s moved his attention to the horizon and the slowly setting sun, the sky slashed with pinks and oranges and yellows, the light reflecting off the ocean and spreading outward in both directions. The light catches the high bones of his cheeks, the highlights in his brown hair, the gold flecks in his eyes. Of both the views in front of you, somehow, he’s the prettiest. 

His gaze flicks down to yours and he cocks a brow, a knowing smile tugging on his lips. 

“Staring is _very_ unladylike,” he teases, faking seriousness for a moment before the smile takes over again. You straighten and lift a hand, setting it against his shoulder and giving him a wicked grin. His eyes go wide, and he stiffens. 

“You wouldn’t.” 

You cock a brow, a silent dare. A mischievous smile pulls on his mouth, and he shrugs casually.

“You can’t kill a prince. Not one who’s been such a gentleman.” 

You snort, and give him the smallest of shoves, immediately reaching out with both hands to steady him but allowing the briefest second of falling. He sucks in a breath and grabs onto you, head snapping up, eyes holding yours. 

You grin, and he huffs, swinging his legs over the ledge and dropping back onto the balcony. 

“You’re making me regret taking in a stranger off the beach.” 

You grab for the chalk board. _I don’t see how that is my fault_. You lift it, letting your grin widen. He lets out another huff, trying to be angry and failing, rolling his eyes and waving a hand dismissively. He shakes his head, and asks again, “Where on earth did you come from?” 

-

A girl your age named Robin is assigned to help you dress and get cleaned up, and though at home you abhor receiving any help, all the tools and fabrics are foreign, and you’re grateful for someone to show you what to do. 

Robin isn’t like the royals you’ve seen in the castle, their rigidity woven into their forms. Steve lets his facade fall when he’s with you, but outside your room, he’s a prince, not your friend. But Robin, not of noble blood and of no obligation to act a certain way, is genuine, and funny, and doesn’t treat you any differently when you lift a fork to your hair thinking it’s some type of comb. 

“You think you can make her pass as a sophisticated lady for one dinner?” Steve asks, leaning against your armoire. You twist in the vanity chair to chuck the small powdering brush at him, and he ducks it easily, straightening with a grin. 

You may not be able to speak, but you’ve picked up a few other gestures in your three days at the castle. You lift a hand, folding all your fingers but the one in the middle. Steve snorts, and you can’t hold your smile back. 

“He who lives in a glass house shouldn’t throw stones,” Robin says, standing behind you at the vanity and meeting Steve’s gaze through the mirror. He fakes offense, frowning with exaggeration. “You’re as uncivilized as they come.” 

“What? I’m civilized.”

“Occasionally,” she says. Steve waves her off, and moves to drag a small chair sitting in the corner to the vanity, sitting a foot or two away from you and watching as Robin works deftly with your hair. She tugs a little too hard, and you wince. 

“Sorry,” she says. “Just tell me if it’s too tight.” 

“She can’t talk, Rob,” Steve says. “She’s mude.”

You meet Robin’s gaze, and both laugh, Robin shaking her head. 

“ _Mute_ , you dingus,” she says, rolling her eyes. She meets your eyes in the mirror and cocks her head, considering for a moment before removing her hands from your head and signing, _Do you know sign language?_

Relief floods through you. At home, your people are fluent in hundreds of languages and know how to sign them all. It comes in handy when the seas are rough and loud, or when speaking isn’t an option. Steve doesn’t know any, clearly, but Robin’s knowledge opens a door of communication. 

_Yes. How do you know it?_

Robin smiles, and signs, _My younger sister, Rebecca, is deaf. My family and I learned a long time ago._

_It is nice to finally communicate without a chalkboard._

_Your only company is Steve. That is enough to drive a person mad._

You both look at Steve and laugh again. He frowns, not appreciative of being left out, which only makes you laugh harder. 

“Not fair,” he says. Robin shoots him a grin. 

“Get used to it, _Prince_.” 

-

At dinner, there is another new arrival at the castle. Found by one of the guards, unconscious in the sand, a girl a winter or so older than you, Steve, and Robin. She’s striking, beautiful in an almost dangerous way, with sharp cheekbones and perpetually narrowed eyes and shining black hair that falls to her hips. She’s enchanting and alluring, but something about her presence sets off alarm bells in your head. 

Steve, however, accepts her fully, smiling as he shows her to a table setting and has the cooks bring her a plate. Her sharp demeanor shifts as soon as they speak, and she turns into something of a mewling, pathetic victim, weaving a tale of woes about being deserted and left behind and waking alone on the beach. 

But it isn’t her words itself that sends cold through your veins; it’s her voice. Because it isn’t her voice. It’s _your_ voice. 

Steve, entranced by her, is too deep under her spell to notice when she looks your direction, cocking a brow, as if issuing a silent challenge. 

The cold in your veins turns to ice. Her eyes; you’ve seen those eyes. You saw them when you signed your soul away. 

The witch, sitting at the Harrington’s table, tugging Steve into her web, wielding your voice. 

An already complicated plot becomes impossible, and all of your hope sinks to your feet and out onto the wooden floorboards. 

-

Steve is happy to assist the girl - _Ravenna_ \- to a guest bedroom, and you don’t see him after dinner, or until the next afternoon, when you find him in the gardens. He smiles when he sees you, but the expression feels tainted, broken after Ravenna’s infection. You’ve no idea whether he’s under a literal spell or not, but you’re not ready to give up on the boy from the beach. Not only because he’s your only hope, but because he’s Steve, because he took you in, because he was kind to you, because you-

“Hey. What are you doing out here?”

You lift the chalkboard, scrunching your nose and cocking your brows in question. 

_I want to go down to the beach._

He frowns, a shadow crossing his face. He shakes his head. 

“I-Sorry. I don’t…”

Your stomach twists, and you think of him coughing his lungs into the sand, of the fear in his eyes when he opened them. He’s afraid. 

Your expression softens and you reach out, taking his head, meeting his gaze , trying to say, It will be okay, without saying it. He hesitates, holding your eyes, and licks his lips, shaking his head.

“Screw it. Why not?” Your lips pull up in a grin, and he narrows his eyes. “But if I drown, it’s on you.”

_You won’t drown twice._

He reads the chalkboard, brows furrowing, a frown tugging on his lips. 

“How do you know that I…” He pauses and shakes his head. “Never mind. To the beach.” 

-

Steve’s easy demeanor disappears the moment he nears the water, shoulders stiffening and hands curling into fists. You pause, kicking off your shoes and rolling up your pant legs - the girls are supposed to wear dresses, but you threw yours out the window the moment Robin tried to force you into one - and turn to face Steve, tossing the chalkboard into the sand and holding out a hand. Hesitation twists his expression, but after a moment, he takes your hand, shrugging his shoes off and stepping into the wet sand. The waves break and foam surges across your feet, making Steve stiffen and suck in a breath. His head snaps up and you give him a reassuring smile. 

_It’s okay_ , you mouth. His lips pull into a thin line and he nods. You shift so that you’re facing the water, keeping his hand in yours, and he does the same. You tap your ear, telling him to listen. He hesitates, but closes his eyes. It takes a long moment, but eventually, some of the tension begins to leak away, his expression softening as the waves push over his feet and the seagulls cry above and the salt swirls around you. Eventually, a tiny smile tugs on his lips, and he lets out a breath, the last embers of fear and tension dying out. 

Something inside you unfolds, a feeling you’ve heard of, a feeling you know the name of, a feeling you’ve never had. It’s terrifying, and big, so big you think it might explode out of your chest. 

You close your eyes and focus on the water at your feet, calling out to the heartbeats lurking beneath the surface, drawing them to you. When you open your eyes, a sleek gray baby dolphin is leaping across the water toward you. 

Steve drops his chin and opens his eyes when the dolphin reaches you and chirps a greeting, surprise and a smile twisting his features. He bends down, running a hand across its slick back, and it chirps happily, spitting water at him. He laughs, rearing back, and the dolphin laughs with him. 

You lean down to touch its nose, and it stills beneath your fingers, humming affirmatively. 

_Tell them I’m okay_ , you tell it. _Tell them I’m safe._

The dolphin chitters in reply and darts beneath the waves and swims away. You both straighten, and Steve turns to you, awe filling his expression. 

In the last two weeks, you and Robin have taught him to fingerspell, and he picked it up surprisingly quickly, though you sometimes still use the chalkboard. 

_Scared?_

He snorts. “No way.” He pauses, giving you a sheepish smile. “Not anymore.” 

You smile and drop down into the wet sand, the waves coursing over your lap and soaking you. Steve frowns, but after a moment, he sits and joins you. You’ve missed the water, missed its constant embrace. 

_Where is Ravenna?_ You sign. 

“She’s not really an ocean girl. More of a…fancy dinner and ballroom girl.” 

You have to swallow your snort. The witch is as close to the ocean as it gets; borne of the tortured souls of shipwrecks and doomed to collect souls for an eternity, never finding enough. 

And you were naive enough to fall into her trap. 

“There’s something about her,” he says, shaking his head. “When I got knocked off the boat during the storm, I thought I was going to die. And then I woke up on the beach, with no idea how I got there. All I remember is…this voice…telling me I was alright.” 

Your stomach churns, and you resist the urge to upchuck right into the waves. _It was me_ , you want to scream. _Me_. 

But why would he believe you? You, who’s never uttered a word, versus Ravenna, who wields your voice as her weapon? Why would he choose you, the odd girl from the beach, the one who doesn’t adhere to his castle’s strict guidelines and who will never fit into his world? 

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head, an incredulous look on his face. “I think it was her. I know how that sounds, but…” 

Your stomach sinks. He is not under a magical spell, but one of a different kind. He’s in a trap, one that the witch set from the beginning. She knew where you’d go, and knew exactly how to steer you wrong. 

And now, your soul is at risk. But not only your soul. You’ve no idea what happens to Steve after your time is up, if her games go beyond your failure. If they do, it isn’t just you at risk, but Steve, too. 

There is only one way to win. One way to right your wrongs. One way to save Steve and Robin and the castle from the witch’s deception. 

They aren’t going to like it; you don’t like it. But sometimes, you can be brave, and you can fight, and you can try, but you still lose. Sometimes, winning means losing, too. 

-

The guards at the castle are utterly unconcerned with the random girl from the beach, meaning you pass through the halls easily, navigating to the armory. 

Before you left, you gave Robin a note and told her to give it to Steve if she needed to. She was suspicious, wondered how she would know she needed to, but you assured her she just would, and left without another word. 

Inside the armory, you remove a sword and a sheath, wrapping it around your waist and tucking away the blade. You pull a small knife off a rack and tuck it into your waistband; just in case. 

You take a deep breath, will yourself to be brave, and make your way down the winding halls to Ravenna’s bedroom. 

-

Robin finds Steve the moment you leave, your demeanor and the stress wafting off you setting off every alarm in her head. She pushes through his door without knocking, stirring him from a nap, to his displeasure, and jamming the note into his face. 

“What is this?” He asks. Robin shakes her head, a bouncing ball of anxiety. 

“I don’t know. Y/N told me to give it to you if I had to, and then took off.”

“Took off?”

“I think she was heading for the armory.”

Steve stiffens, and drops his eyes to the note, unfolding it. 

> _Steve,_
> 
> _You asked me where I came from. When I told you it was far away, I was lying. My home is closer than you think. If you look out your window, look down, you’ll see it._
> 
> _Four weeks ago, I watched a boy fall off a boat and into the water. It was reckless, and stupid, and dangerous, but I saved him. I dragged him to shore and out of the water._
> 
> _I dragged you out of the water, Steve._
> 
> _And I made a choice. A naive one. One that has set off a chain of events I never saw coming, one I should have seen coming. For that, I’m sorry._
> 
> _But I’m not sorry I met you, nor am I sorry I saved you. The truth is, I would do it again, and again, and again._
> 
> _Ravenna is not who she seems. She is far more dangerous than you will ever know, and if I don’t stop her, I can’t guarantee your safety. That isn’t a risk I’m willing to take._
> 
> _I made a deal. Ravenna gifted me one month on land to find you. She traded my tail for legs, but she took my voice for her own. If I were to fail, I would return, and her soul would be mine._
> 
> _She is a ravenous creature, and her hunger will not be sated, not with a castle of souls ripe for the taking._
> 
> _I freed her. I can stop her._
> 
> _If I succeed, the curse will be broken, and I’ll lose my legs. If I could stay, if there were any other path, know I would take it. If there were another choice, I would make it. But this is all we have._
> 
> _I didn’t think I was the type of person that would ever have a great love story. And you gave me one. I wish it were a better one, a happier one, but I’m grateful for what I got._
> 
> _I love you, Steve Harrington, and I’m sorry._

Steve doesn’t realize tears have welled in his eyes until one slips down his cheek, but he ignores it, meeting Robin’s gaze, fear unfolding in his gut. 

“What?” Robin asks, face pale. 

“She’s going after Ravenna,” he says. “She’s going to kill her.” 

-

Ravenna is awake in her chambers when you enter, gripping the hilt of your sword. She tosses a glance your way, unconcerned by your presence and the blade, pushing to her feet and cocking a brow. 

“Now, what are you doing with that?” She asks in your voice, the tone all wrong, sharp and poisonous. 

You move further into the room, jaw tight, gaze locked on the witch. She’s playing at calm, but a vein pulses at her temple, indicating her unsettlement. 

“How cute. I wasn’t aware mermaids were allowed into the guard.” 

You ignore her, crossing the room and pressing the tip of the blade into her throat. She laughs, waving a hand, an invisible force flinging you across the room and into the bedpost. The impact knocks the breath out of you and sends the sword skittering, and you gasp for air, scrambling for the sword. Ravenna’s laugh swirls around you and she stomps a foot down on your fingers, stopping their reach. A strained scream slips past your lips and you suck in a breath before yanking your fingers away, another scream popping out as the bones crack and pain flares hot and sharp, scattering your thoughts. 

_On your feet. On your feet._

You stagger to your feet, Ravenna turns away for the moment in her confidence, and you lunge for the sword, lifting it again. Ravenna turns, an amused smile on her lips. You suck in shaky breaths, willing your legs to stay steady. 

“There is nothing to be done, little fish,” she says, reaching out a hand to caress your cheek. You swipe with the sword, and she jerks her hand back, but not before the tip of the sword nicks the side of her hand. Anger flares in her eyes and she thrust out a hand, grabbing you by the throat and shutting off your air supply. 

She lifts you off the ground with inhuman force, tilting her head, eyes burning with rage and something dark and ancient and hungry. 

“Let us calm down, now,” she says. You struggle in her grip, and she smiles, keeping your eyes on her. The sword clatters out of your hand, and Ravenna’s laugh turns your stomach. Spots dance at the edge of your vision, thoughts shifting farther and farther apart. 

You squirm again, something cold and metallic brushing your belly. 

The blade. 

Hope swells in your chest, and you continue struggling, lifting one hand to Ravenna’s as if to pull her off, slipping the other into your waistband. You tug it free, clinging to consciousness and dragging your thoughts into order. 

Five more seconds. You can stay awake for five more seconds. 

You lift the blade, and with all the force left inside you, plunge it into her heart. A sickening wail splits her mouth open and she drops you to the ground with a hard thud, shaking your skull. You scramble back to your feet, but no longer need to fight. 

Ravenna writhes in her dress, twisting and keeling over, gray smoke wafting off her skin. The smoke billows above her, pulling at her skin, tugging pieces of her away until all that remains is a pile of ash. 

The clock strikes midnight. One month ends. 

Your legs give out beneath you, and you hit the wooden floor, spine twisting and readjusting, two legs shifting into one tail, scales shimmering in the firelight. You’re covered in blood, half yours, half Ravenna’s, and your throat aches, and your entire body is sore, but you’re alive. 

The curse is broken. The realization rips your heart in half. 

The door to the chambers swings open, and Robin and Steve rush in, swords in both their hands. They slam to a halt at the sight of the large pile of ash and you, pushing up onto your hands, eyes wide and lips parted. 

Steve’s brows furrow, like he can’t comprehend what he’s seeing, and for a long moment, no one speaks, or moves, or does anything. 

“I need help,” you say eventually, unable to meet Steve’s gaze, settling for Robin. “I need to go home.” 

-

Steve carries you down to the water under cover of darkness, Robin trailing behind him, and no one speaks, not even when Steve lowers you onto the sand. He kneels in front of you and reaches out a hand to touch your cheek. 

“I’m guessing you got my letter?” You ask. He stills, surprised by your voice, but nods. 

“I did,” he says. He drops his gaze for a beat before lifting it to yours. “I didn’t deserve this. You shouldn’t-you-”

You let your hand settle atop his, quieting him. Your lips curl up in a sad smile. 

“It’s alright,” you say. “You’re alright now.” 

His lips part, sadness tearing across his face and ripping your heart in two. 

“Don’t go,” he says. “ _I love you._ ” 

You smile, tears welling in your eyes, and tip your forehead against his. You tip your chin up, pressing your lips to his in the most careful, the saddest, of kisses. 

When you pull away, you meet Robin’s gaze. 

“Take care of him, yeah?” You look between them. “Take care of each other.” 

“Don’t go,” Steve says again. A tear slips down your cheek and you turn away, knowing if you look back, you’ll never move forward. You push into the waves, the cold water welcoming you with open arms, and turn to face Steve and Robin. 

Steve steps into the water, unaffected by the foam pulsing across his feet. His expression is a war of sadness and frustration and hopelessness, and it takes everything in you not to push back onto the sand and wrap your arms around him, to never let him go. 

And then, something changes. His brows furrow and his knees buckle and he hits the water with a splash. 

When he comes back up, it isn’t with two legs, but with a sleek black fin, glittering in the moonlight. 

“Holy shit,” Robin breathes. Steve cranes his head to get a better view, confusion etched across his features. 

“What in the ever-loving fuck…” he says, lifting his gaze to yours. 

A laugh bubbles up in your chest and past your lips, loud and tumbling and inappropriate for the moment. 

It appears you succeeded in your original quest after all, but with Ravenna’s death, the magic of her curse was redistributed. Broken and fractured, it found another way to fill its side of the deal you made. 

After a long moment, Steve’s lips curl up in a wide grin. He pushes toward you, a little awkward, a little unsteady, but reaching you nonetheless. You wrap an arm around him to steady him - there is plenty of time for him to learn the ways of his new world - and he looks to Robin, who stands in the water with a smile on her face and tears streaming down her cheeks. 

“Robin…” Steve says. 

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I never saw either of you.” She hesitates. “Does this mean…I won’t…”

You shake your head, giving her a smile. 

“Not a chance. You’re not getting rid of us that easy.” 

She smiles. “Same time tomorrow, then?” 

“And the next night, and the next,” you say. You turn to Steve and give him a tiny smile. “Are you sure about this?”

He gestures to the water and the fin lurking beneath it and cocks a brow. You laugh, and release him. 

“Take care of Fisher for me, will you?” Steve asks Robin. She nods, and says, “I’ll keep him fat and happy.” Steve grins and turns back to you. 

“Are you ready to go home?” You ask. His lips curl up in a smile. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he says. 

You give Robin one last wave goodbye, and dip beneath the surface, Steve joining you. His lungs adjust to the new gills, handing over control, and within seconds, he’s swimming to you, tiny bubbles slipping out of the invisible slits on his neck. 

You hold out a hand, and he takes it, and you head off into the dark waters. 


End file.
